


Hatching a Plan

by Lunarium



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Sex in a Smithy, sexual healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8018407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Finwë is taken into Angband, Fëanor's lover devises a plan while also helping him heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hatching a Plan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> For AmyFortuna! A small glimpse into what would have been had Ingwë, Finwë, and Olwë rejected the summons of the Valar. 
> 
> Many thanks to IdleLeaves for beta-reading my fic! :)

Thrice the ambassadors of the elves were approached, and each time they kindly rejected the offer of the Valar. They would not forsake Cuiviénen when their closest friends—Morwë, Nurwë, and Lenwë, among others—refused to leave the lands of their births; and Olwë would not part from his brothers Elwë and Elmo. Not even being taken to the Blessed Realms could influence their decision differently. 

“We are stronger in number, and strongest when united,” Ingwë had explained with much diplomacy to Oromë when the elves had all refused the call of the Valar for the final time. 

Disheartened and troubled, though respecting their final decision, Oromë traveled back to report to the Valar. 

“What do you make of this?” he asked the other Valar in a mix of confusion and amusement. “Their greatest foe resides north of their realm, yet they will not forsake their homelands. How long may they fare?” 

“Death will still happen,” Mandos spoke as his eyes gazed out into the vision Eru had bestowed upon him. “Be it there or here in the Blessed Realms. Death and Misery will still find them.” 

“But there is hope we have not accounted for,” Nienna said, misty voice as sullen and grey as her face. A tear dropped into her palm and she studied it as if it showed her a vision, a tiny swirling mirror into the future. “Had we split the elves, possible allegiances may not be forged, and there may never be peace negotiations between tribes, nor exchanges of knowledge, nor strategies in battles, nor bonds to be formed that would lead to our mutual enemy’s fall…” 

“But the suffering of the elves will continue,” Oromë argued. “They will die in great numbers.” 

“As Eru willed it.” Mandos shook his head. “There cannot be life without suffering, and the pain will ignite the elves towards their freedom. That I Perceive. Do not grieve for the elves, Oromë, for that may perhaps be as Eru had deemed it.” 

With heads bowed, the Valar offered one final blessing to the peoples of the stars beside the sea before parting from them with no ill will. Though part of their hearts worried for them, Nienna’s words comforted them enough to leave, assured for now, in the unified power of the elves.

*

“You positively and utterly disgust me.”

Fëanáro shot to his feet, glancing around himself hurriedly, and caught a glimpse of Eöl before the other young man disappeared between the shadowy trees. Growling under his breath, he shot after him, forgetting the lovers he had been spying on. 

“I believe I informed you not to disturb me while I tended to some important business,” Fëanáro said in a manner he hoped would match his friend’s clipped tone. 

Eöl snorted. “Spying on lovers in the throes of passion is counted as important work? My, this is how you use your gifts?” 

He sprinted deep into the forest, and cursing, Fëanáro ran after him, scarcely able to keep up. Eöl’s eyes were well accustomed to the dark forest in ways Fëanáro himself was not, though he would never admit to it. 

He located Eöl in the wide clearing where the leaders of the Quendi held council. The meeting, recently adjourned, left behind his father Finwë to talk with only a handful of the other tribes’ leaders, including Eöl’s own father, Morwë. On either side of Finwë were his wives Míriel and Indis, who were in turn wed to one another, as it was rather customary among the elves to hold more than one spouse, and at times for the spouses to enjoy each other’s company as well.

His father had told Fëanáro of the tales of how the elves were once approached by the gods of the land seeking to take the elves to safer realms. They refused to part from the land, unwilling to forsake their bonds with their friends. And yet while the bonds stayed true, their customs and languages between each tribe changed; it was sometimes hard for Fëanáro to fully understand his friend Eöl, whose tribe, the Kinn-lai, spoke very differently from Finwë’s tribe, the Noldor. Though different, the people mingled and their love kept them protected from the great threat of the Northern Foe, and that was enough. 

Sitting around the campfire, warmth and love mingled over the heads of the leaders. They kept a long chatter, unaware of the two princes, save for young Nolofinwë, just a baby sitting on his mother Indis’s lap. Upon seeing his older brother his arms flailed out, reaching for them, but Fëanáro ignored him. 

“I know how much you love your father and would hate to disappoint him,” Eöl drawled. He sat cross-legged a little away from the group, back erect as if waiting patiently for his father to take notice of his presence. Fëanáro slid beside him, and, gripping his chin, forced his head back towards him. 

“Don’t you dare tell them what you saw!” 

Eöl smirked. “Then turn your lust into practical use to serve us in the war, my friend. My own body hungers for activity, and I hope what it desires may interest you, for I care nothing for instruments below the waist, unlike yourself. Care to join me in the smithy?” 

Sighing, Fëanáro stood up. Smith work was one of his greatest passions, though he could not deny other carnal pleasures that had been occupying his mind and attention as of late. All elves his age must have been going through the same phase, save for Eöl, who only wanted to work in the smithy every waking moment. 

Eöl stood up after him, wearing a small smirk in victory. Without another word he motioned for Fëanáro to follow him. In a moment of rage Fëanáro almost refused, furious another would treated him as a follower, but Eöl was different. He was no one’s follower and no one’s leader, but a fellow elf whose mind and heart belonged to the smithy. Sighing, he followed after him as he sought to keep the other internal flame abated. 

_Instruments below the waist_ , Fëanáro thought, giving a snort. _Just you wait. You are young still._

*

News of the war with their Northern Foe trickled into a steady stream over the years. Half the time Fëanáro joined the fighters by the northern borders guarding entry to the elven tribes. The other half he worked with Eöl and the other elf smiths forging weapons.

In time they met with more allies: short bearded peoples whom Eöl immediately took a strange liking to and whose skills with craft eventually won Fëanáro over. And there were ones like elves yet not as comely or tall, though encounters with them were few and far between. But be they dwarf or man, they each came with their own stories of equal horrors to tell of the Black Foe whose reign reached and poisoned their lands, like spider webs dripping from the sky. 

During this time, Fëanáro and Eöl had grown into strong men, married, had children (for Fëanáro, at least), though they kept an intimate relationship together where the warmth amongst themselves was as welcoming and enticing as the fires upon which they heated their metalwork. 

The sky high above the stars gained a new presence among them, perhaps a sign from the Valar who once sought their company. A silvery orb, fair and breath-taking, though it waxed and waned a whole cycle before a great ball of fire lit the entire sky brighter than any torchlight. Fëanáro delighted when he first beheld sight of it, but Eöl immediately turned away, wishing the silvery orb was back, already missing the stars and the dark. 

“But will you look out there! I have never known the world’s colors in such rich boldness, such beauty!” Fëanáro said, studying the world around him. Eöl shrugged. 

“What do you think this all means?” Eöl asked. 

Perhaps it was a sign, of hope, of the war drawing towards its end. Tales of the Valar having been locked with their Foe—Morgoth, as Fëanáro called him—filled Eöl with a moment’s hope before it was dashed by a blood-curdling scream. 

“Fëanáro! Come quick! King Finwë, he—!” 

At the mention of his father, Fëanáro’s face paled. Without another glance at Eöl he ran out of the smithy, following the guard back to the tribe leaders’ council hall. Eöl kept close behind. 

Míriel and Indis were huddled close together, fingers entwined and heads close, exchanging comforting words, a sight which Fëanáro missed as he scanned the vicinity for any sign of his father. 

“Where is he?” he demanded loudly. “Where is King Finwë!” 

“Fëanáro…” Eöl’s voice came out low, gentle, careful, eyeing the Noldo king’s two grieving wives. 

“Father!” One of Fëanáro’s sons approached. Eöl hadn’t made much effort in memorizing their names; the less time they spent in the smithy learning metalwork, the more forgettable they were. But Eöl was certain this son had to be the eldest, the one with hair as red as his mother’s. 

“Father, I am sorry,” he struggled. “We were guarding the gates before the first rise of the golden orb, this _Sun_ , and there was an attack. The king came to defend us—he was surrounded—”

“Is my father dead?” Fëanáro asked, and Eöl winced. He shot a glance towards his own father down on one knee in prayer for the Noldo king. 

“No! I—don’t know. He was surrounded, injured, and taken to the Black Foe’s fortress.” 

“To Angband.” The words drew out of Fëanáro in a slow, dying, fearful breath; cold and dreadful, before fire and rage filled his eyes. He stormed towards the middle of the hall, his cry alerting all towards him. Eöl stood erect, studying him cautiously. 

Words surged out of Fëanáro like sparks of hammer strikes, igniting waves of fire through everyone who stopped to listen, all but Eöl, whose scowl only deepened the longer Fëanáro’s speech went on. Nolofinwë’s nodded along, strung along by his brother’s speech like a puppet, ready to call his own men to battle. Eöl rolled his eyes. 

“We must not tarry but seize the enemy at once!” Fëanáro cried. 

“And risk your own necks?” Eöl’s voice boomed out, stifling out Fëanáro’s voice like wind against a torch flame. 

A low growl escaped Fëanáro’s lips as he turned towards Eöl, a silent threat in his gaze before turning back towards the crowd. 

Eöl shook his head. “He is using your emotions to manipulate your actions! Do not listen to him but to reason! Each of us have lost someone to the Black Foe, and revenge is our right! But if we attack now without preparation, we only place ourselves at risk of losing greater loses. Our foe relies on that. He will seek to break us by taking our families and friends. But we are greater than that.” 

Silence lingered, hooked onto the final word. The fury in Fëanáro’s eyes burned, but Eöl kept his gaze steady and impassive. 

“I must agree,” Arafinwë finally spoke softly, the youngest of the princes and children of Finwë and Indis. “We must seek to retrieve the king, but we should first strategize.” 

“Each second we lose—”

“Morgoth is counting on you to come crashing in like a blinded fire-breathing bull, Fëanáro,” Eöl hissed, having run right against Fëanáro’s side. 

“You do not know the pain,” Fëanáro’s voice, merely a whisper so that only Eöl could hear. His eyes widened.

“My brother,” he said. “Mírärn-iôn, who did not live to an age to earn his adult name.” 

The pain and shock shot through Fëanáro’s eyes as the realization hit him, bringing him back to his senses at last. He tried to meet Eöl’s eyes, seeking for his forgiveness, but Eöl turned his back and silently made his way back to his smithy. 

The fire had long gone out during their absence, and after rekindling the flame, Eöl stood by the bench, hunched over a stretched piece of hide with an unfinished sword and some writing tools. Flickering shadows danced across the textured page, ghosting over his dark fingers as he hastily drew a map of the land. 

“Do forgive me,” Fëanáro’s voice came from somewhere by the doorway. “I had forgotten.” 

“I have enough brothers and sisters to fill an entire forest,” Eöl said. “Whereas you are the only child of Queen Míriel. I do not expect you to remember us all.” 

“But Mírärn-iôn and you were especially close, enough that it made me jealous,” Fëanáro said. “It wasn’t like with myself and Nolofinwë, often fighting for our father’s affection.” 

Turning back to the map, Eöl bowed his head. “It does not matter. You are hurting.” 

“Finwë is the king of the Noldor, and my father.” The words were spoken far closer to Eöl’s ears, the heat of Fëanáro’s body right against him. A hand paler than his own slid near him on the bench. 

“I too would have lost my mind if it were my father,” Eöl agreed. “Though I would plot before taking my first step. That is how I am. But you, Fëanáro? You are a volcano which erupts at the slightest provocation.” 

“I cannot tame this fire, as you well know.” Eöl could sense the turn of Fëanáro’s lips into a smirk, and an idea came to him then as he leaned into Fëanáro’s arms. 

“Indeed,” Eöl said. “You must extinguish that fire before you can think clearly. Use my body then, my fevered friend.” 

A hand closed over Fëanáro’s own, inviting, trusting, willing to open up to a man bursting with grief. A breath caught in Fëanáro’s throat, but he seized Eöl, accepting his offering. In seconds Eöl was lying atop the bench beside the textured sheet, his tunic and leggings shed from his body as kisses claimed every inch of him. Hands gripped him with mix of need and grief, marking him with unspoken words of his fears, his distress, his desire for him. 

Caught in Fëanáro’s inferno of passion, Eöl’s mind spun; kisses, hands and moans surrounded him. But he cleared his mind; one hand snaked down Fëanáro’s shirt to relieve him of it. Each reciprocated kiss only flamed Fëanáro’s fire further, leading to more intense pressure against Eöl’s body, urgent now as both stood without a stitch on them and Eöl lay out completely bare, but Eöl let Fëanáro take him, accepting each bite, each rough thrust into him. It would help with Fëanáro’s grief. 

As for Eöl, he had other work to tend to. Even as his body responded to the passions and attention from Fëanáro, he divided his attention elsewhere: tracing a plan on his lover’s back, his mind working off the map nearby: roads…paths…clusters of trees and rocks…recalling every detail ever given by those who were enslaved in Angband and released. 

When Fëanáro gripped him tight, crying out as his body shuddered with his climax, Eöl caressed comforting circles on his back, hearing the soft whimpers as pain left him. But inwardly he grinned, eager to slip away from his dear friend. Once Fëanáro knew what he was plotting, it was going to enrage him to think that Eöl hardly paid him much mind during such an intimate and vulnerable moment, but Eöl knew how to handle him by now. 

“That despicable golden orb. How much I do detest it,” Eöl sighed. 

“Yet you enjoy my fire.” 

“For yours is a forge’s fire, Fëanáro.” Grinning, Eöl sat up as Fëanáro leaned back. “I speak of the Sun’s blaring light. But perhaps…we can use it to our advantage.” 

“Attack Morgoth in broad daylight?” 

“Not exactly,” Eöl said as he slid off the bench. He crossed the short distance towards the map before him. “He moves in shadow and knows his way about these lands. Say we did the opposite, and attacked when light brighter than anything is so blinding that he cannot see us coming?” 

Fëanáro peeked over his shoulder to study his notes, and the first sparks of intrigue, of mischief, ideas—and most of all, hope—flickered across his features. 

“Tell me more.”


End file.
